The Power of Corvinus
by Racheliz
Summary: Selene wakes up in Budapest, disoriented, and learns a little about the extent of her new powers. Not much actually happens in this one, but possibly more exciting stuff to come.
1. Chapter 1

Non-canon, but fun to write and hopefully a bit of fun to read. Imagine if Michael hadn't been resurrected, but rather Selene had been forced to kill everything in the castle on her own, after which she passes out. Directly after Evolution. I might write more chapters, but it all depends on the inspiration.

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He stands above the body on the steel table, his hands shoved firmly into his trench coat's pockets. This is an enigma, and he finds himself thoroughly flummoxed. The body of a gorgeous woman, lying on the street – unconscious but far from dead – dropped in his lap. Nobody really knows whose jurisdiction to put this in, and it _is_ Budapest. Not much happens under good legal jurisdiction in Budapest.

There are several "problems" with the body, each of which he examines carefully. Lists drive his mind – they have since he was a child. First thing: elongated eye teeth. Drawing her well-formed lips away from small, white teeth, he studies the canine teeth that extend beyond the regular line of her teeth. He tugs them gently – they're not glue-on. Picking up a dentist's mirror from a nearby table, he studies the gum around those teeth, deciding soon that they aren't implants. That's not even possible, is it? He considers that she could have had braces, bringing her eye teeth down to a level as this. For the moment, he'll leave that as his main theory.

The outfit will comprise problem two, he decides. She's dressed in a skin-tight black leather bodysuit, slashed through in many places. Current pseudo-vampire trends have swung towards the Anne Rice vampires – either with satin and velvet Orleans-style old-time finery, or the 80's rock flashy leather. From an entirely technical standpoint, this woman could fit the latter. Black leather, he supposes, would be the key link. But realistically, she fits neither well. He thinks of the odd stories he hears now and then – groups of non-people scavenging in the night for blood. Budapest is a shady side of town, that's certain. He'll let this problem slide for the moment.

The problem that really drives him crazy is that, when she was brought to him, angry red slash marks riddled her body. Her sides, her back – _she would certainly have scars from that_, he thought. But seconds later, as he turns to look at her, the marks were gone. Rents in her bodysuit remained; terrible, deep slashes, but her skin was white and smooth. This is not natural. He attempts to run through possible causes, but comes up with nothing.

He begins to wonder about what he had called urban legends. A coven of vampires, some of them vampire warriors. Almost instant regenerative powers. The eye teeth. He shakes his head sharply. Not possible. It's late at night, he's low on sleep, and his imagination is wandering.

He checks her vital signs once again, pulling her eyelid back to reveal supernaturally blue eyes. They're twitching and flashing radically, but staring generally straight up at the ceiling. He wonders if she can see something, but shakes the thought off as his imagination once again. Letting her eyes close again, he lowers his cheek to inches away from her lips, and waits to feel the breathing that will give him an indication of her status. Normal; a good, slow tempo.

Suddenly, he feels her eyes snap open. He leaps away, but realizes immediately that she's not awake. He leans in again, fascinated, and stares into her now wide-open blue eyes. Images flash in front of him like a television screen – rapid and chaotic, stream of consciousness. He knows this isn't possible. The eye can only reflect on the surface – it can't project pictures like this. But he draws in closer, mesmerized.

A helicopter falling out of the sky, landing sideways in what looks like a castle. Snow everywhere, frosting the woman's hair as she blasts a gun. Men hanging from latticework, their bodies convulsing and changing . . . snouts, claws. Werewolves. And the woman pushing a blue, winged monster into the helicopter's blades. Half his body falls off a broken platform.

Icy fingers tighten around the back of his neck. He leaps backwards, upsetting the steel counter, but she uses his momentum to sit up on the table. Her fingers stay behind his neck, controlling him. Her breathing quickens and he feels her heartbeat racing.

"Who are you and what's been done to the elder?" she says, her voice harsh from strain and unconsciousness.

"Alyn! What elder?" His pulse is racing, and adrenaline races through his body. Her dark eyebrows draw together slowly, her eyes stare in the distance, and her fingers loosen their grip slightly. He pulls away from her cautiously, feels her arm give.

He guesses she is reliving whatever event he had seen in her eyes. She snaps suddenly back to the present, stares at him. A low, moaning sigh escapes her lips briefly, and he feels her mood swing from anger to resignation. She allows him this knowledge, opening her mind just slightly so he can feel her rawest emotion.

"Michael," she whispers softly. He sees tears shine on her pupils – they make her eyes even more luminescent. Her hand drops away from him, and he relaxes slightly. He studies her again for a moment; despite the danger, he finds her alluring. She is lean, built like a hunter, an athlete. Black hair, wet from the general dampness and the rain above them. Dark eyebrows that give her a level-headed look, now drawn down to create small, uneven furrows in her forehead, and those eyes – supernaturally blue.

"My eyes are still blue?" she questions, her heading turning a little to look at him.

"Yes." He thinks for a moment, then, "you heard my thoughts, didn't you?"

"I've been changed more than I thought." Questions race through his mind, but he knows it would take hours to unravel her mystery. He lets the thick silence pool around them again.

"I saw something . . . in your eyes," he ventures slowly. "Werewolves, and a bat-like monster, and a castle. Am I prying if I ask what that all meant?"

She doesn't answer for a moment, running slender fingers through her hair. Her eyebrows are still drawn down and anxious, but she seems to accept that he is not a threat. He guesses that she is scanning his thoughts and searches for signs of it in her eyes.

"Where am I?" she asks suddenly, finding something odd in his thought pattern.

"Budapest," he ventures. He's seen her pupils – she doesn't have a concussion. Not knowing even what part of the world she's in seems abnormal. He sees her eyes widen suddenly, and wonders what the problem could be. Her face changes slowly from confusion, to vague excitement, to disbelief, and finally uneasy acceptance. "What's wrong?"

She turns to him finally. "I am a Death Dealer – you would think easiest of me as a vampire. I was . . . somewhere else before this. I can't tell you where. But last I remember, I stood in the sun – the sun! – and then felt myself pass out. And I wake up here. My powers . . . they're changing. I don't know what I could do now. I must have brought myself here while unconscious."

Alyn feels his doubts melt away. How could he not believe her? He's seen all the proof that was really necessary. "You're not going to . . . drink my blood, are you?" He asks, suddenly uneasy.

She shakes her head negatively. "The thirst is relatively gone. Corvinus's blood has given me power that I never knew could exist."

He accepts all this easily, and doesn't try to understand what she's saying. More important questions come to his head. "What's your name?" he asks.

"Selene."


	2. Chapter 2

Not feeling particularly wonderful about this at the moment, but I figured I'd put it up anyway. What with school and work, it's been hard to get in much writing time. Any comments appreciated.

Alyn's life up until now had been so God-forsakenly simple that things like this left him relying solely on his lists. He has found himself drawn so completely into her world that it would take a miracle for him to get out. _But then really_, he thinks, _why would I need to get out? I have no family left, no true friends. Leaving my life – or what I had of it – behind for her isn't exactly unthinkable._

The woman Selene sits in the driver's seat of a Maserati, fingers gripped on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. _She drives like she's never been a civilian_, Alyn thinks. But he's not exactly worried – she's proven that her reaction time is far above his, and her driving like that of the stunt drivers Alyn has seen in the movies. Selene floors the gas on a short stretch of open road, downshifts suddenly, and sends them careening down an alleyway that Alyn never had known even existed.

Alyn wonders vaguely why she has chosen to bring him along – from the brief descriptions she's given him of her life, he knows he'll be no good to her. He shoots just well enough to stay certified, moves just fast enough to stay alive, and thinks better methodically than on the run. He guesses that she holds onto him as a last strand of humanity, but he doesn't mind. _Humanity?_ he thinks, confused.

Selene stops suddenly, and Alan's attention is drawn suddenly to a large iron gate, and beyond it, the smoldering ruins of what he guesses was a huge mansion. He hears a short gasp from beside him. She opens her mind to him again, and he sees the mansion as she remembers it: lavish burgundy velvet, dark rooms with expensive furniture, vampires in lush finery milling around tables with blood-filled wine goblets. "Decadent, but still mine," Selene murmurs. He turns to look at her, to gauge her response. He sees only weariness.

She opens the door to the car and climbs out slowly. Alyn wonders immediately if he should get out also, but sees her turn and shake her head once at him. Walking directly to the gate, Selene stands for a minute with her slender fingers resting on the gate that holds her from her former home. She clenches her fist sharply around the padlock and chain, and, as if on a whim, rips it away.

He's shocked – the chain had to be an inch thick, steel or iron, with a heavy padlock on it. No one was meant to enter this area. But she's torn it as if it's a string. Apparently her surprise nearly equals his; her fingers open and she looks at the broken chain lying across her palm. _I was strong, but not like this_, he hears.

She swings the gates open and motions to him, without looking back. He exits the car and rushes after her, glancing back at the car once and wondering if it was safe to leave it there, unlocked, doors open.

"No need to worry," she says softly. "Even street thugs know better than to steal something from Ordoghaz." He smiles a little to himself. It makes sense, though. A castle full to the brim of hungry, ethics-challenged vampires isn't quite what the average thief wants to target.

A general framework still remains – Alyn sees steps in the front leading to a burnt-out doorway, a half eaten-away second floor. Ordoghaz, as she calls it, was built of stone. Even fire cannot ruin it, although the huge capstones are singed to black. They walk towards the mansion, across what was once a cobbled, sweeping entryway. He could almost hear the sound of horses, carriages, the finely tuned murmurings of high class . . . vampires.

He walks beside her, and every now and again, feels her glance at him, as if for comfort.

"You enjoy my company," he says, searching for an answer. "Why? I'm not like your death dealer friends, I'm nothing like you, and I'm a mortal. What do I have for you?"

They keep walking, and he senses her questioning herself on the same matter.

"I don't know," she says finally, her brows drawing together for a moment. "You're so . . . human. But I think I miss that. I'm sorry that's all I feel." She turns her head away from him, ostensibly looking at an object on the grass beside her.

"Alright," he says, nodding slowly. "I'm not sure I mind so much anyway."

She climbs onto the first steps, undoubtedly reliving any one of the hundreds of times she'd done the same thing and taken it for granted. The door is burnt out, so she steps through the threshold with no obstacles, turning left to climb a rough staircase. At the top stretches a long hallway, branching off in many tributaries.

The hallway is wide enough for three broad-shouldered men to walk abreast, so Selene and Alyn walk down the corridor side-by-side. In each room seems to be lodged one of Selene's memories – she shows him things periodically as they walk by certain rooms. _Catalina's room_, he hears. _She was a great death dealer and my closest friend until she died. My first room_, at a tiny, windowless closet. _One doesn't get a suite until one proves herself. I did so in a matter of weeks – none had ever advanced that fast_.

They turn left at the next hallway. Ten steps in, three hulking men come from behind a corner, as shocked to see Selene as she was to see them.

She curses sharply as they aim huge machine guns at her. Before they can draw a line on her, she's sighted them. Before they shoot, "do you know who I am?" She's nervous; he can see it in every line of her body. Even the depth of her voice belies her worry. He begins to edge in front of her, but she shakes her head once, rapidly and sets herself in front of him. _You'll die if they hit you – I won't_, he hears.

"I created _him_. The hybrid." The men snarl like animals, and Alyn's eyes open wide. She'd mentioned lycans, and werewolves, but he hadn't expected them to look so frightening in their human bodies. "Do you really want to kill the maker of your only ally?" she says forcefully.

"He's destroyed now. Both hybrids are. You're no good to us, and sentimentality means nothing here." Alyn senses that most lycans don't speak this well – the leader, shorter and slimmer, seems to be something of an abnormality.

Selene sends him a mental picture – himself, edging to his right, away from the lycans' line of sight. _Get into that room. Now. Draw whatever side arm you've got – you're police, you have something, don't you? Load it, cock it, whatever needs to be done. Then wait there, but don't block the door. I may need to dive in at some point._

Alyn moves slowly, trying not to attract too much attention. Once in the room, he draws the revolver that he carries with him on assignments.

"If you leave now, I won't hurt you," he hears. Laughter from the animals.

"You're one, we're three," the short leader snarls viciously. "What can you do?" He hears sudden gunshots from their end and immediately fears for Selene's life.

Purposefully not thinking about it, Alyn steps out and takes a quick headshot at the leader. Dead on, between the eyes. Selene acts on his cue, rolling out from the opposite room and shooting the two lackeys just as quickly. "Quite a shot," she tells him earnestly, and runs to the leader's body.

Alyn follows, curious as to what the problem could be. "He's pushing out the bullet already," Selene whispers, intensely. "See it?" To Alyn's astonishment, he does see it. The bullet, lodged fully four inches into the beasts' brain, slowly presses out of his skull. He hears report beside him and jumps as two bullets smash into the man's head. Something silver trickles out like blood – "silver nitrate," Selene tells him. "It's the only truly effective weapon against them."

"Lycans," she mutters. "Do you believe me now?"

"I'm not sure I ever disbelieved you," he says softly. "How could I?" Their eyes lock, green on blue. The intensity harbored there is almost too much for Alyn to understand. His breathing quickens, his eyes sharpen. Suddenly, she turns away.

"We should go."


	3. Chapter 3

They've been driving ceaselessly for many hours now, and Alyn wasn't even sure what they were doing anymore. Selene wasn't specific, and although she'd said something briefly of their goal, Alyn had either forgotten or deemed it largely irrelevant.

Selene had found something last night, the night with the three lycans, that had changed her attitude and mood radically. Alyn didn't know what it was – he'd lagged behind her just for a moment walking back to the car, and she'd stooped suddenly to pick up a metal object. He'd missed what it was, but hadn't asked. She may never need sleep, but Alyn was starting to wear now. He'd slept not at all the night before, and here he was staying up the whole next night.

Alyn chastises himself briefly for not speaking up and telling Selene that he needed rest. A Maserati is not meant for sleeping, he's found. The seats don't recline, and he can't find a comfortable half-recline position anywhere. He's tired, cold, and miserable. Apparently vampires don't feel cold, either. _It's probably forty degrees in this car_, he thinks, _but she feels nothing_.

"Selene," he says finally. He shatters the silence with one word that is left hanging on the cold air like ice droplets. "I need some rest." She turns toward him, a look of surprise registering in his tired brain.

"Oh, I suppose you do, don't you?" She shakes her head in mild consternation. "I'm sorry, Alyn. Do you have some money for a motel? I'd pay, but I seem to have lost any money I ever had."

He smiles a little, running his hands through his hair. "I have enough. It doesn't matter where, anywhere that's close is fine."

She drives about ten more minutes, then pulls over in a seedy-looking motel parking lot.

"Go ahead and get a room, I'll be up in a minute." He wonders briefly if she'll be in the same room. He'll be too busy sleeping to care, but he wonders how awkward it'll be anyway. _As long as I'm asleep, it can't be awkward, right?_ He tells himself.

He climbs a few stairs to the office and checks his watch: 1:43 AM. Taking the last step, he levels with the cut-out opening on the front of the office and sees a face studying him. Light shines from the opening so brightly that, for a moment, Alyn can't see anything. He waits, letting his eyes adjust.

The face on the other side doesn't exactly inspire Alyn's trust immediately. A thin man with a thin face, dark hair, and a goatee. In his early 30s, Alyn guesses. As he comes closer, Alyn sees that the man's hair is greasy, but his clothes are immaculate and neat.

"Out late, aren't you?" the man says in an American accent.

"Yeah," Alyn murmurs, faking a smile and pulling his billfold out, "and I'm ready for some sleep. It's been a long day." Sliding a few bills out, Alyn motions to the man to keep the change as the man hands him a room key. Alyn turns to go back down the stairs, throwing back a last smile and nod.

"If I may ask," the man calls after him, "what kind of car is that? That's an import."

"Maserati. Past that I don't know, sorry." The man waves one more time at him. Alyn senses that the man didn't want Alyn to leave, wanted more conversation. Alyn's got so little left in him that he can't oblige, but strolls down to his room and lets himself in. He leaves the door open a crack for Selene, who won't have a key, and flops on the bed, immediately dead to the world.

He hears, if vaguely, as Selene enters the room. The creak of the door gives her away – no sound accompanies her boots hitting the floor. His eyes don't open, and she closes the door, bolting every lock available.

He wakes up over nine hours later, the sun shining through the windows onto his face. He rolls over groggily and once again checks his watch: 10:55 AM. He hears water running, wishes he could get into the shower at some point himself. _No clothes_, he thinks, and sighs. _Only what I've got on me_. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and de-tangles sandy hair with his fingers.

After a few moments, Selene comes out of the bathroom. She's dressed in a slightly cleaner version of the suit she'd worn last night, he notes, and wonders whether she carries a spare in her car all the time. She nods towards the bathroom, opening her mind to show him a clean set of clothing and a towel.

"Thanks," he says softly, and rolls out of the bed. His feet are bare, and he guesses that he kicked his socks and shoes off during the night. He'd slept like the dead.

The bathroom is steamy from Selene's shower, and Alyn relishes the warmth already provided for him. He strips slowly, surprised at how sore and tired he still is, even after a full night of sleep. Stepping into the shower, he turns the hot on full and smiles with pleasure.

Half an hour later, Alyn emerges from the bathroom. He feels a hundred times better – clean, warm, and happy. He drops the dirty clothing into a small suitcase Selene had apparently provided for him, looks up and smiles at her. She stands at the window, back turned to him, looking out.

"I never thought I'd see the sun again," she muses. "Once he turned me, there was no going back. And here I am, standing in the warmth of the rays. Odd how things can change so fast, isn't it?"

He nods, having thought along the same idea shortly before. Going from a bachelor in a grungy apartment to the accomplice of a gorgeous vampire warrior woman was a big change. He hears a sound from her and guesses she's been reading him again. After a second, he realizes that she's trying to laugh. He turns to her in surprise - "you were laughing at me!"

She studies him for a moment, then smiles again. "I was."

A few hours later, Selene wakes from a short nap to find Alyn standing over her. She is the type to be instantly awake, but she stares at him for a moment as if still drowsy. His eyes are lit strangely, and she sighs to herself.

"You want it, don't you?" More a statement than a question.

"What's it like?" he asks.

"It's death. You understand that, don't you? You lay down each night knowing that you don't desire sleep. You eat each meal knowing that you feel no hunger. Blood is the only sustenance, Alyn. I need no blood, but I don't know what will happen if I turn you. You will desire companionship, but want nothing more than to be alone. It's misery, depression, hatred."

Here she pauses, watching his expression, one of interest.

"I want it."

She stands up slowly, facing him. He is easily five inches taller than her, but the height difference has never seemed more evident to either. The light in his eyes worries Selene.

"What brought this?" she asks, her brows furrowing.

Images slice into her brain, and she recoils slightly. "Your family?"

His eyes widen and he backs away. "Get out of my head," he says ominously.

"I didn't look for those images – you sent them," she mutters, irritated. "It was a car crash, wasn't it? A wife and two children. A drunk driver on the wrong side of the road at night, his lights off. Alyn . . ." she trails off, watching his face still. Hurt flashes across his features.

"I asked you to stay out of my head!" He shouts at her, angry and hurt and desirous at once.

She steps closer to him, "listen to me!" She says intensely. "Turning is not going to make it go away. It'll make it worse, and it'll fester in your mind and heart until there's nothing left of you. Do you understand me?"

His eyes lock into hers and she senses something else in him.

"You want me, don't you?" Her eyes gleam briefly with victory, but she doesn't look away.

"Yes," he says tightly. He reaches out suddenly, grasping her head with one hand and the small of her back with the other and drawing her to an inch away from him. His breathing quickens as he stares directly down at her, but his eyes don't waver for a long minute. He can't feel her breathing at all.

"Forget it," he says finally, turning his back.

An hour later, Selene and Alyn climb back into the car. The American man at the booth stares after them curiously, but doesn't move when Alyn nods at him.

Alyn senses immediately that Selene hasn't forgiven him for the events of the morning. He's not entirely sure why she's angry – hadn't she been implored by numerous men and women to turn them into creatures of the night?

Half an hour down the road, no words have been spoken. Her ire is assured, and he's angry with himself now.

"Do I remind you of her?" Selene asks, cruelly. Saying it, she almost immediately wishes she hadn't. But a part of her is actually curious.

Alyn turns sharply to stare at her profile. For a long minute he tries to decide whether to be angry or answer the question civilly. Finally, "yes, you do," his voice breaking a little.

"Was she fair and dark like me?"

"Yes, although not as pale." He sends her a fleeting image of his wife, and Selene feels the anguish that accompanies it. The woman in his mind is laughing, lips parted, white teeth showing. The woman turns directly to Alyn, whose eyes Selene sees through, and smiles with a look of love that Selene has never seen before.

"She's beautiful," Selene sighs.

"She was, wasn't she?"

"Did you have a chance to say goodbye?"

"No. She was dead within minutes of the crash, before the emergency vehicles could even reach her."

"What about your children?"

"The same. They exited my life quietly, without my knowledge. I didn't find out until hours later that one drunk driver took away my whole family." He curses quietly, then turns his head to run the fabric of his shirt along his temple.

"How old were they?"

"Elena was five, Toby was three. Now they'd be seven and five."

She nods, and they lapse back into silence for a moment.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up."

"No, don't be sorry. I think you have a right to know, if I expect you to put up with me and bring me along."

"Why do you come along?" She turns for a second to glance at him.

"Nothing in my life was fulfilling. Let's face it, I'm not going to severely reduce the crime in Belgium.

You came along, beautiful and exciting, and you accepted my companionship. I had nothing to stay for, and everything for which to go. Hope drove me to it, I guess."


	4. Chapter 4

He sensed the changes every day in Selene. He'd been with her for only ten days, but he could feel her mood darkening and her sensitivity to his needs callousing. She'd told him exactly what it was – the moon was about to reach its apex and begin waning. Somehow that tied to her, Alyn guessed in ways that he, as a human, could not understand. Their friendship stagnated in the meantime, and Alyn thought it was probably better that way.

His wife's monthly cycles had been similar – not tied to the moon as directly as Selene's, but regular and deeply intertwined with her moods and behavior. He'd learned ways not only to preserve the delicate peace in his household, but also to comfort her. Alyn wasn't sure he was ready to try those on Selene.

The eleventh evening, Alyn wakes up to find Selene standing over his bed, her eyebrows drawn down. He stretches his arm back, feeling the pull as his bicep elongates. Selene still prefers to be nocturnal, although her abilities now stretch to the day as well. His schedule has evolved to become like hers, and he sleeps heavily during the day to wake up at twilight, ready for whatever journey is next.

"Get up," she says coldly. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, resting for a moment while his head adjusts to uprightness. He'd quit worrying quite so much about modesty, and slept in a pair of boxers. Albeit under the sheets. He stands up slowly, reaching his full height about six inches above Selene's head. Even with her boots on, he's considerably taller than she.

"Dress yourself and be in the car in ten minutes," she mutters, then stalks out of the room. He sighs, grabbing a pair of jeans off the bed behind him and shrugging into a shirt. He grabs a number of items of clothing and stuffs them into a duffel bag lying a few feet away. He walks to the bathroom, glances inside for any forgotten objects, and zips up the duffel.

Alyn walks to the door, bag in hand, and slings his messenger bag over his shoulder. He hears a sudden clank behind him and jumps back. Behind him, rocking back and forth, lays a giant throwing star like none he's seen before. He bends down slowly, hearing his knees creak a little, and picks it up. He knows immediately that there are undoubtedly pressure points that have caused it to pop open, and that there are certainly more with equally disastrous results.

He holds it delicately, maneuvering around the blades edging the circumference. He draws the blinds back, and moonlight falls on the silver filigreed top. It lights suddenly, throwing color and brightness like a prism across his shirt and the room behind him. He follows a particular train of light and stares intently up at the ceiling for a moment. On the browned and dirty "popcorn," an image is displayed in light – a half moon. He smiles for a second, remembering the myths from his school days.

Selene – goddess of the moon. He feels a sharp wave of annoyance from outside and guesses that his ten minutes are up. He glances to the ceiling again, studying the simple half moon pattern somehow reflected or thrown by the moonlight. He wonders briefly if it would show in sunlight, but guesses it would not.

He strides out to the car without a backward glance, hearing the door slam behind him. The messenger bag cuts into his shoulder a little, and he shrugs one shoulder while twitching the strap across his chest. It settles into a more comfortable position as he opens the door to her Maserati and sinks into the ergonomic seat. Before he even closes the door, she throttles into first gear and jolts into motion.

Alyn pulls the seat harness across his chest – another layer of constraint on him. He feels a little uncomfortable with all the straps and harnesses. But his hand still encompasses the throwing star, a modified shuriken, and he tries to decide whether to hold it out to her or keep it for himself. She's in a bad enough mood already, and he's not sure whether his pointing out her organization flaws is going to fly.

After a moment, he switches the shuriken to his left hand and holds it out, his arm hovering a few inches over the middle console of the car. "It was laying on top of my bag," he says softly. She studies it, her eyes moving rapidly from road to weapon. A soft white hand reaches out and takes it from him.

"Who was your Endymion?" he asks, recalling the myth. "Who did you beg eternal life for?"

She sighs, having sensed that this conversation would come up eventually.

"His name was Michael," confirming his earlier thought. "Michael Corvin. Do you know anything about the Corvins? No? Both the vampire and the lycan races are descended from the original Corvin, Alexander. He gave me the power I possess now when I drank his willing blood. Michael was one of two hybrids – a perfect cross between lycan and vampire, that should have ended the war. The war of vampires and lycans, the reason those beasts in Orghodaz tried to kill us.

"I'd half-created him, do you see? He'd been bitten by Lucian, but he survived my bite as well and turned into a strange creature. He was my Endymion. I think I loved him, although it could have been nothing more than animal attraction." This bitterly, as she recalled some intimate moment when she must have wondered whether "it" was love or lust. "He died at the hands of the other hybrid, an even more freakish beast. I was left to combat the hybrid, his lycan brother, and tens of lycan offspring." Here she shakes her head angrily – "after I'd defeated all of them, I suppose I fell unconscious. And then . . . then I woke up here."

He senses tension, and reaches over to place his hand on hers, resting on the gear shift. Her skin is cool to the touch, but smooth like silk. He senses that she is unsure of how to react, and a full moment passes where they sit in cool limbo. After that moment, her arm relaxes slowly, her shoulders sink, and she exhales.

At a rare stoplight, she tenses again – turns, lightning-fast, and grabs him with her right hand. She draws him in and presses her lips against his hungrily. His shock only lasts a second, and he returns the kiss as intensely as she'd begun it. Electricity shatters his nervous system and the skin in his lips tingles pleasantly. She pulls away slowly, her eyes aglow with a weird blue light.

Alyn sits back against his seat, breathing heavier than before. He's never felt anything like this before, even with his wife. It was a different sensation with his wife, not better or worse. She was warmer, more peaceful than Selene. Selene's passion is intense and otherworldly, but he can't say he doesn't enjoy it. But he glances to his left, and finds her still studying him. The hunger is gone, the light in her eyes nearly faded to their normal glow, but two of her teeth clamp down on the right side of her lip, holding it half-folded in. He smiles a little at the thoughtful gesture.

"Do you care for me?" she asks, with all the vulnerability and fragility of a schoolgirl.

Immediately, "yes." His knee-jerk reaction. He hadn't admitted it or even known it himself before, but now he knew it without a doubt. At first it had only been attraction, but it had evolved. Conflicting emotions rage in him – fear, sadness, and passion. He guesses the same is true of her, the way she sits quietly.

She'd turned away, but he studies her now. Her long, lean legs are placed lightly on the brake and the clutch, the black leather stretched tautly across her muscled thighs. Her abdomen is lean and flat, curved slightly against the seat. Right arm at a gentle bend to the hand, still rested on the knob of the shifter. At a stop, her left hand is held between her knees, awkwardly, as if she's self-conscious. He traces the profile of her face against the twilight with his eyes, her dark hair covering her aristocratic cheekbone.

"You'll come with me?" she asks.

"Of course I will. Wherever you go."


	5. Chapter 5

Alyn hears voices one morning, and jolts awake. They've been in this damned house for a full month now. He loves it there, but it seems so distant from anything human or tangible. She gives him food and speaks with him occasionally, but it feels so like the rest of the world has dissolved. Like the apocalypse has come and gone, and he's been left with nothing but a stony, gorgeous . . . presence. He doesn't know how to classify her, in all her harsh beauty. Some sort of otherworldly being, but one that he could never hope to pin down.

As he rolls out of bed, the voices sink lower from a brief moment of higher pitch, the natural ebb and flow of conversation slowly making its way to his ears. He can't hear any details, nothing of what the two voices are saying, but he distinctly recognizes Selene's voice, and another man's, whom he doesn't recognize. A thick wave of jealousy rolls over him; he's never heard that tone in her voice, the way she seems interested in the conversation. He can almost picture her now, gesturing and discussing with this man what she won't discuss with him.

He pads down the stairs, dressed solely in his boxers. A full flight, then he rounds the corner to the kitchen. He takes in the entire scene before the two acknowledge his presence. Selene stands against the corner of the counter, arms crossed. She wears tight black jeans and a black camisole – he's tried since he's met her to convince her to wear any other color, but her old habits seem firmly pressed in her. Three or so feet away, leaning amiably against the double sink and in front of a window stands a long-haired, leather-clad man. He's dressed simply: a dark linen shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, long pants, and a dark trench-coat just brushing his knees.

Their body language is the part that Alyn finds distressing. Her arms are crossed, but she remains open to him, her body facing his. He senses some sort of timidity in her that he's never seen before, and he wonders what strange sort of beast this man must be to elicit such a reaction from her. The man is leaning forward, his eyes lit brightly on hers and his lips parted in a smile. He's the aggressor, the desirer, the one who is throwing caution to the wind and is ready to make the attempt.

Suddenly, supernaturally quickly, his head flashes towards Alyn. A bemused look creeps across his face as he glances Alyn up and down. Turning back to Selene, he gives her a quizzical smirk and chuckles once. Alyn feels his cheeks burn, and suddenly feels acutely his lack of any real clothing. The man stares at him again for a second more, but Alyn's eyes turn to Selene. She seems nonplussed for a moment, her eyes flashing between Alyn and this strange man.

"Alyn," she says calmly, gesturing to him with her right hand and then pointing towards the other man with her left, "this is . . . Lucian." She doesn't bother to introduce Lucian to Alyn, as his eyes are firmly set back on her, essentially cutting Alyn out of the conversation. Lucian dismisses Alyn even before Alyn has had a chance even to acknowledge his presence.

"Pleasure to meet you, Lucian," Alyn says stiffly, his posture reflecting the displeasure of having a strange man invade his home and speak intimately with she that he has considered his own. He realizes now how absurd it was to assume thus; Selene was always going to return to her own. Those which understand her and know her battles.

Lucian launches into the end of his story, muttering something with a glance towards Alyn and saying some final line that widens her eyes and brings her the closest to a laugh that Alyn's ever heard. Lucian leans back animatedly, throwing his arms wider and laughing heartily. He shows pointed teeth and flashes an almost-unfriendly grin towards Alyn, then focuses his attention once more on Selene. Alyn is genuinely shocked by how open and interested Selene looks; gone is the detached presence that he sees every day. Here is something much closer to a human.

He turns uncertainly, but sees that neither of the two even notice him leaving. Wandering back up the steps, he enters his room and pulls on clothing. But then, realizing how out of place he is, he sits back down on his bed and settles his elbows on his knees.

Selene can't help but wonder now how Lucian even found her. She wonders how he survived the final blow, the one which left his blood sprayed across her hands and face. She wonders where he's been for the past . . . nine months, she thinks? She'd spent four or five months with Michael, and then a similar amount of time with Alyn. Since the time she'd slain Viktor, she'd thought Lucian was dead. They'd barely even said ten words to each other throughout the centuries of their existence, yet she'd felt some sort of strange connection to him.

Their eyes had met once when Lucian had taken Michael's blood. His were still supernaturally blue from the blood lust, and as their eyes had sparked between closing elevator doors, some of that same lust had been transferred to her. In that instant, she knew that he wanted her in a way that she's never quite seen before. Her feelings at the moment had been closer to repulsion, yet she'd been fascinated by him for years, both before and after that incident.

Funny how a single look can change everything, she thinks. And even now, his single look . . . maybe it's solely their bond. They are both immortals, and that's no mean unifier. She'd known immediately, both with Michael and with Alyn, that their relationship would be strained by their differences. Michael had even been immortal, but there had been a sense that he wouldn't know her struggle for many, many years. Immortality is not what she had bargained for. Not at all. She'd told Alyn . . . pain and struggle and restlessness and hatred. He seemed not to understand her, and she didn't wish to inflict that upon him.

They talk for what seems like moments, their topics ranging from their history to their hunting stories. She wonders why they're not instantly locked in mortal combat; lycans and Death Dealers have hated each other for so long now. But Corvinus had changed all that. Lucian and she are essentially the same being now – powerful and somehow neither just lycan or just vampire. Selene glances at the clock and sees several hours have passed. Excusing herself amiably, she treads up the steps on bare feet.

Alyn hears her coming up the steps, and can't decide whether to dread the moment of contact or anticipate it with excitement. His elbows still rest on his knees, and his head still hangs loosely. When she enters the room, he doesn't even look up. He doesn't want to. Her eyes might still be full of that look that she has for him.

She sits down next to him, barely making an indent in the cool white sheet next on his bed. They sit in silence for a moment before her hand creeps towards him and rests lightly on his lower back. She draws breath in once, as if to say something, then bites her lip and remains silent.

"He understands me, you know." Whispered, with no hope of swaying him or consoling him.

"Is that it, then?" He asks. His voice is completely neutral now, neither cold nor angry.

"I . . ." her long pause tells him almost everything. "I don't know," she says finally. "I suppose it's up to you. I won't pretend to make a choice now."

He nods slowly, her hand burning her back. He's not felt like this in years, but he turns slowly to disengage her hand. He reaches for her, his arms closing around her and his weight pressing her against him. He feels no pull to her other than the simple hug of knowing that something he cared for is passing on.

She walks back downstairs slowly, and Lucian rises from sitting next to the table. She senses him in a way that she's never quite felt before. The hairs on the back of her neck tingle sensationally, and her eyes meet his and spark dangerously. Her stomach lurches and she breathes in once, twice, and rips away from his gaze.

He laughs harshly, just once, his eyes devouring her and raking her body almost viciously. She's shocked and simultaneously fascinated by him, and their magnetism leaves them just inches away from each other. Her entire body tingles now, but they are a delicious inch away from each other. As if held by some strange force, their bodies simultaneously propelling and repulsing.

They spend the most pleasurable three moments of her life with an inch space between them. Their lips don't touch, but they are almost close enough to do so. They hold for so long that she aches to touch him, aches to feel him against her. But chastely, they separate, both realizing that they have held their breath during their moment together.

Turning, breathing for a moment, she sees Alyn standing at the base of the stairwell. Her heart drops and she stares at him intently, watching the panorama of emotion on his face. Predominantly a deep hurt that she knew she should have seen coming.

"Alyn . . ." she whispers, and watches him turn away.


	6. Chapter 6

Alyn had essentially decided to leave now. His place was no longer with this beautiful being that he'd considered a black angel of deserving death. Or maybe more accurately, her place was no longer with him. She'd remembered the essentials of her past; rediscovered something that she'd lost, he told himself – the love of another immortal. If he could call it love. Something vindictive in him bucked calling their instant attraction "love," and preferred instead to call it lust.

So slowly, carefully, he'd packed a small bag of his belongings. There wasn't much, because the circumstances around his departure had been rushed. She'd told him to come, and like the fishermen and tax collectors, had lain down his burdens and followed her. It had been a beautiful time, he couldn't deny it. For a period of . . . what, three, four months? he'd left his wife's ghost behind him and followed Selene, eyes turned heavenwards towards her like a preparing saint. Selene had been everything he needed, everything he wanted, everything he could dream of. He had never gained her true affections, and even now, looking back, he thought that the kiss they'd shared may not have meant as much as he'd hoped.

But now, the warm leather of his bag clutched in his hand and his prospects for the future stretched out in front of him, the idea of leaving Selene seems so . . . distant. He can't bring himself to walk out the door, even now, as his hand presses against the doorknob to the front door. He almost manages to turn it, but his heart jumps and he turns back towards the stairwell instead. He leaps the stairs two at a time, turns right into the hallway, and comes to the entrance of Selene's bedroom. There are four bedrooms, and she doesn't typically stay in the same one for longer than a week, but he knows which is hers instantly.

A thousand thoughts, a thousand emotions are coursing through him. Inside, deep down, his heart is screaming that he'll get her back, he'll win her trust, he'll make her fall back in love with him. But at the same time, a thought hits him brutally: what if he's in there with her, their arms wrapped around each other and his fingers contacting her white skin with all the dizzying sensation that he's wanted from her? What if he is the one who will give her the maddening highs of love, of deep emotion mutually realized, and Alyn has been kidding himself this long?

His eyes lock on the doorknob. It tempts him, every muscle in his body screaming to _open the fucking door_ while his mind tells him just as surely that he doesn't want to know what's behind it. Finally, he grasps the doorknob, wrenches it to the side, and throws the door open. There's a flush of movement, and his mind draws a rapid parallel to the movements of the game birds that he and his father used to hunt, rising over the fields with a rush of fear and wings and sound. A single lamp in the corner throws white light over the bedroom, but before his eyes truly adjust, she's standing in front of him.

She's breathing a little faster than normal, her lips parted and her chest rising and falling quickly. Black hair falls richly over her face in strange patterns that show how fast she'd risen from her bed. Alyn's eyes sweep the room from one corner to the other, sharpening at the empty bathroom but seeing no one within the room. His eyes come back to her, and he realizes that he's caught her at a rare moment of vulnerability: one hand clutches the bed-sheet to her chest, the other held half behind her to hold the sheet tighter to her abdomen. A flash of white thigh and bare shoulders, and he turns away to preserve whatever modesty he's left her.

But he comes face-to-face with Lucian. Cursing mentally, Alyn realizes that he'd been a fool all along, and that Lucian had been in another bedroom entirely. His suspicions were simply paranoia, and he's left himself open for attack. Lucian snarls, his face seeming to change ever so slightly. His eyes darken, the whites disappearing slightly, his cruel features sharpening and pulling down, feral with rage.

"Lucian!" she calls, breathless. His eyes flick to her, and the seconds of eye contact that pass between them apparently are loaded with meaning. Lucian's features return to their previous disposition, and he visibly composes himself.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Lucian shouts.

"I . . ." Alyn mutters, suddenly speechless. The pantomime around him seems to freeze, and he stares for a moment at Lucian, a frighteningly dark man whose features are contorted in annoyed belligerence. To his other side is a beautiful woman in only a bed-sheet, her body language confused, but leaning towards him still in alluring confusion. He studies both of them, watching the virility and vitality that is untouched by any mortal. Ironic that the undead possess more life than any live being he's met yet.

"Let him alone, Lucian," Selene says, her voice surprisingly firm as she flicks the sheet to wrap around her like the half-covered Greek statues. But suddenly, Lucian turns on her, leaping around Alyn in one swift movement and standing just inches away from her. Alyn sees a look in her eye and realizes suddenly that she's provoking Lucian deliberately to get him away from Alyn himself.

"Is this where this _whelp_ has been sleeping?" Lucian yells at her, leaning forward so his snarling lips are close to her. "I'll kill him now, if that's what it takes!" Her own lips tighten, her jawline contracting like Alyn has seen every time she's become angry or hurt.

"Calm down," she whispers, this time with a cold hint of anger creeping into the intonation.

He lunges forward with his right hand, his fingers grasping for her neck. Selene is equally fast, and to Alyn's horrified fascination, she grasps his hand and twists it hard, her delicate fingernails biting into his skin and slicing it. Before Alyn can even react, though, the scene has changed; Selene's open hand still clutches the sheet at her breast, but Lucian's right hand is just inches away from her cheek. Her head is turned at a tense angle, holding her face away from his hand, but her breathing has returned to normal.

"Go ahead," she says, ostensibly to Lucian, but meant for Alyn. She stares tensely back at Alyn and tells him wordlessly to leave, now, before things get worse.

Slowly, terrifyingly, Lucian's fingers draw down towards her neck. Alyn watches, knowing nothing can be done for her that she won't do herself, but finds himself praying as he hasn't prayed since . . . his wife's death. Selene turns her head back to Lucian, drawing his eyes down to hers and focusing intently on him. If she can keep his intentions solely on her, she can keep him away from Alyn. His fingers now stroke her jugular, twitching convulsively at one point but loosening instantly. It's a threat, his way of showing her that she is his now, and there's no going back. His fingers tighten again after a moment, spanning her neck easily and forcing her head up.

His lips draw back slightly into something resembling a smile, and he leans in close to her, bending so that his face is close to her neck. Slipping his hand down a little, he draws close enough to kiss her pale skin and inhales deeply, sensuously. His eyes close, as if he's in a trance by the mere scent of her. But Selene's harsh blue eyes search Alyn out over Lucian's shoulder, her lips parting in gracious modesty, as if realizing the absurdity of the situation and embarrassed that Alyn should see. One long breath and she looks back into Lucian's eyes, an odd mixture of apprehension and haughtiness turning her eyes cold.

Something changes in her as their eyes meet, though, and he lifts his head slowly until their lips are close but not quite touching. She softens to him, tilting her head back to kiss him and, in doing so, exposing the softest part of her neck. He seems almost to lunge at her, from Alyn's perspective, to cover the last few inches between them, and their lips meet brutally. She's pressed back a little from the force of him, but gains confidence and strength with each passing second. Her free hand reaches behind him, raking through his dark hair and grasping at the back of his head, dragging him in closer. Lucian's head turns, pressing in hungrily, one hand searching for the nape of her neck while the other wrenches her waist towards his.

For Selene, this kiss was fire and ice, pain and pleasure. She'd waited so many years for the touch of another true immortal – in truth, she'd been waiting all of her immortal years. Michael, a fledgling, had never stirred this reaction in her, this intensity. The instant Lucian's lips had touched hers, she'd felt a rush . . . even in her head she couldn't describe it. She wanted him, she wanted his blood, she wanted his body, she wanted his soul in her hands. He stirred a beast deep inside of her that was only matched by the similar beast stirring in Lucian. The bare skin on the small of her back crawls with the pleasure of it until his cool palm finds her spine. Her back arches underneath his hand, and he pulls her tighter until her skin is crushed into the leather coat he's wearing, one of the platinum buttons grinding through the sheet into the soft hollow beside her hip.

Lucian's hair brushes Selene's breastbone as he kisses halfway down her neck, and she feels his teeth brush her flesh. She whisks her hair sharply, and he feels the rippling movement of muscle underneath her skin. He finds his way back to her lips and presses in once again, his breath harsh against her cheek. Her soft skin is a drug to him, and each second that he remains in contact with it, he feels he gains strength and power.

Alyn stands frozen. Moments ago, he had felt the world freeze around him so he could study the two immortals in all their glory. But now, Alyn himself is the pantomime, and his legs remain completely unwilling to move. He wills himself to move, begging himself, remind himself that the last thing on earth he wants to do is watch another man take the woman of his dreams in front of his eyes. All that's left of Alyn's world is crashing slowly around him, and all he can do is stand and watch.

After a moment more, Selene draws her hand away from his head, pressing it delicately against Lucian's chest and forcing him away. Alyn reads a look of restrained euphoria wrapping her skin in a faint glow. She turns her face up briefly, eyes lidded, exhaling slowly through parted lips. She shakes her head and slowly runs her fingers through thick hair, seeming to come back to herself after her hair is back to its regular self. Her fingers still rest against his chest, and Alyn imagines the burn that he felt just hours ago when she'd touched his back in sympathy.

"Alyn," she whispers. Lucian's needs appeased, her own desires temporarily fulfilled, she turns back to the man that had been her constant companion for several months now. She says his name as if just the tone of it will keep him here, but the things he's seen and the knowledge he's gained has convinced him that, no matter how he may try to fight it, she will never be his. Her eyes, blue and so cold, are yet filled with sadness that she turns fully onto him. Neither look away for what seems a long moment, but finally she glances back at her contacted hand as if it incriminates her.

"Both of you go downstairs," she says after a moment. The muscles in her jaw – he'd come to think of them as a barometer to her feelings – are leaping intensely. But with a sullen glance at the darker man beside him, Alyn turns on his heel and stalks out the door. "I'll be down as soon as I'm dressed."


	7. Chapter 7

She steps down the stairs slowly, dreading the sight of her two men staring across the table at each other, eyes deadlocked in a brutal internal struggle for the right to own her, essentially. She wonders whether this is even entirely what she wants; she certainly knows she doesn't want them ripping each other apart for her, because she's not even entirely sure she wants to make the choice in the first place. Lucian's sway over her is immense, and even the sight of him rouses that beast inside her. After that kiss . . . and only hours before that, the sensation of magnetism holding her near him throws her decision to the wind. She can still trace the pattern of his kisses on her neck, still feel the burn of his palm against her back.

But Alyn is dependable, and steady, and loyal. Lucian's passion could potentially persist for hundreds of years to come, but Alyn's love will persist until his death. Alyn cares deeply, Selene knows that much. He is built to love with his soul, to revere and respect her. Lucian, she thinks, Lucian is built to love with his body and his mind, to tear down and disrespect. He's brutal and violent, and she knows well that a life with him will be turbulent and dangerous. But her connection with him is so strong, so irresistible, that she can't imagine telling him to leave.

She reaches the last step, and as her bare foot touches the landing, she pauses. The scene is not unlike she'd imagined: Lucian and Alyn stand slouched against the counter, arms crossed, not looking at one another but both sulking in their opposing corners. Lucian's dark sensuality clashes with Alyn's sandy-haired wholesomeness in a striking way. Selene's lower lip shows the signs of constant biting for the last ten or fifteen minutes.

"Sit down," she says sternly, and the men take opposing sides of the small wooden table in the center of the kitchen. She moves around the table and settles in a chair between them, tenting her fingers and drawing her lip under her teeth again. Lucian reaches for her and her hands fall away from her face; his finger draws her lip down ever so slightly as he wipes away the blood, placing the stained finger against his front teeth and tasting her with a shudder down his back. Alyn loathes the air Lucian breathes, hates that her blood will taste sweet to Lucian and repulsive to Alyn.

She takes a single deep breath, her chest rising and falling deeply underneath her black camisole. "Listen," she says, and her voice cracks ever so slightly. "I . . . I don't want to choose. I won't beg for anything. But I want you both to stay." And with that, she stands gracefully from her chair, resting one hand on the table and holding the other one awkwardly at her temple. She taps her fingertips butterfly-soft against the wood table, as if waiting for one of the men to comment or just to hold her back, then abruptly turns. The only concession she makes is to run her fingers behind the collar of Lucian's jacket, ruffling his hair just enough for him to respond strikingly like a cat, turning his head and shivering once. His eyes follow her, and she can feel his gaze on her back.

Climbing back up the steps, Selene takes a moment to relish the air around her, the cool floor underneath her, the feel of the fabric resting against her. She's tired, though, and as she comes to her bedroom, she pulls away the black jeans and curls into a ball in her bed. It's too soft, she thinks, damn the men these days that need comfort like women. Dragging one of the blankets over her, she closes her eyes and rakes her hair out from underneath her.

Moments later, she hears soft footsteps in her bedroom, tentatively making their way towards her bed. Alyn, she knows, coming to be sure she's alright. She glances at him once, her eyes remaining half lidded. He settles down next to her, and his fingers slide silkily through her hair. As she closes her eyes again, he gently rubs the rim of her ear and lays himself down, facing her. His lips seek out her forehead and he pulls away after a chaste kiss, positioning so he's an appropriate distance away but directly in her line of sight when she wakes up. Almost wanting to smile, she allows him to take her hand is his own warm one, holding it clasped in both of his against his heart and closing his own eyes.

They sleep in harmony for several hours, the most peaceful hours of Alyn's time with Selene so far. While Selene needs no sleep, he senses that her exhaustion is from emotional rather than physical strain. When she wakes in the early part of the evening, her eyes open to find his side of the bed empty. She can't quite read what that may mean, but glances quickly up at the door, realizing that something had woken her. Lucian.

He shuts the door behind him slowly, and her eyes follow the crack of light that slowly wanes until it disappears entirely. Although he shuts the door quietly, he knows she's awake and knows that his stealth is unnecessary. His eyes cut through the similar dark; his are equally sharp in light or velvet dark, and he seems to study each ripple in the fabric covering her. Slowly, moving softly over thick carpeting, Lucian treads to the side of the bed which Selene is curled into. Settling down next to her, his abdomen turned at a sharp angle in order to face her, he leans down slowly and rests his forehead against her temple. Her back is turned, but he knows that she senses his every move.

"Listen," he whispers. His voice is soft, but to her enhanced ears, it cracks the silence like a hammer. "I'm sorry. I'll imagine you didn't want me to frighten that man so much, nor did you want me to maul you quite like that. I was rough, I apologize." His head presses against hers still, but softly. She turns over hesitantly, and he moves a little back so he can meet her eyes. They study each other for a moment until Lucian shifts, laying his body beside hers on the bed. His left arm slips under her neck, and she can feel his muscled bicep supporting her head. She smiles a little; he understands the mechanics of the thing, she thinks, if nothing else, as his right hand crosses her body to rest warmly on her hip.

She remains in his embrace until he moves, shifting his hand to her back and turning her towards him. He alters his position slightly, moving closer until she can feel the heat from his body. Curling his arm around her neck, he drags her closer with his right hand and rests his lips against her neck. Instinctively, she lifts her hand and slips it behind his head, relaxing it tangled in his hair. Lying, snarled together like ancient lovers locked in eternal embrace, Selene is lulled almost back to sleep.

"Don't leave me," he whispers as her eyes close, intimate; but at that instant, she jolts back to wakefulness, pulling away sharply and pressing her elbow underneath her. Her eyebrows draw down, furrowing uneven lines in her brow. She stares at him again, as if trying to pierce into his mind through his eyes, then rears up and climbs off the bed. Pacing from one corner of the room to the other, she shakes her head briskly a number of times. Then she stops suddenly, glaring back at him and leaning forward aggressively.

"What the _hell_ do you want from me?" she yells at him, her eyes flashing angrily.

He turns, rolling up so he can meet her gaze more easily. He cocks his head, confused in a sense, simply wanting her to lay back down and kiss him again, the way he'd kissed her hours before. But she knows this, and is suddenly disturbed by his selfishness.

"Come back," he whispers, not meaning to be seductive but still sending a shiver through her.

"I need time, Lucian," she says, her voice still hard despite the thing inside her that is crying to lay down next to him and wind herself into him. "I need space," she says, her voice showing none of the traces of the thing inside her that is screaming to touch him and feel him pressing hungrily against her. Her desire for him is unquestionable, his for her equally so. But something in her is terrified of the harsh difference between Alyn and Lucian, and finds herself unsure that she should choose the passion of Lucian's love over the purity of Alyn's.

"Just get out," she mutters coldly. He stares at her, bewildered, for a second more, then rolls up and stalks out the door. She closes the door behind him, refraining from slamming it shut behind him. Stalking back and forth a few more times, she makes up her mind and locks the door. Pulling out the dresser drawer, she she slides a thick leather suit from under a pair of jeans. She'd hidden it away for a surprisingly long time, considering how she'd so rarely taken it off before, but now the feel of warm leather was comforting between her fingers.

Just a moment later, she has effectively strapped into the suit, comforting herself with the gentle creaking and the tight compression against her muscles. It's been too long, she decides, feeling a little jolt of adrenaline as she fingers the steel guns in the thigh holsters. She pulls on the last piece of her armor, a flowing trench coat, and stands for a second contemplating the familiarity of her clothing. Walking casually to the window, she pushes it open and lets the cool breeze play with her hair for a moment. One breath, one second of indecision, and she leaps from the window. Landing twenty feet below, barely flinching, she strides out of the yard and climbs into the sports car.

She drives for hours through the countryside, her car windows down and the ambiance of the pastoral region calling out to her. Thinking back, she's never been calmed by cool mountain air so much as by the promise of a hunt _in_ the cool mountain air, but tonight, she just wants to drive. She comes to a red stop light and waits, coming to a full-stop and anticipating the green. She senses it before she sees it; slamming the gas to the floor, Selene pops the clutch out. The car leaps forward, pressing her body against the bucket seats from the force of it, and she rams the clutch in and shifts from first to second. Seconds later, she repeats the motions and moves into third, then fourth, then fifth, then sixth. Within ten seconds, the car pushes 120. Her foot stays on the gas, and she winds along the roads at almost double the speed limit.

After several hours, Selene glances down at the clock on the dash and realizes that it is nearly 3 A.M. She down-shifts slowly, loathing the idea of going back to that Godforsaken house but yet knowing that she should go back. Had they torn the house down and murdered each other, she can't say she'd have been surprised. But parking the car and treading wearily back towards the house, she sees a single light on in the kitchen, and no others. That means they can't have killed each other, she hopes.

She opens the front door stealthily, but has to walk past the opening to the kitchen. Sitting quietly, head in hands, Lucian sits half-asleep at the table. His hair pulled half back, his eyes mostly closed, he jolts awake when her foot hits a loose board.

"Selene," he says, his eyes wider than normal. "I was worried," he says slowly, as if registering the ineffectualness of his anxiety. He stands up and crosses the room to her, sweeping her into his arms and holding her tightly. Her head rests in the hollow of his shoulder, but her arms remain limp beside her.

"I need you, I want you, I love you," he says, and his words burn through her like a searing iron.

"Lucian," she whispers, pushing him away enough so that he can look down at her. "I . . ." a long, awkward pause. She doesn't want to tell him, but at the same time, it's become useless to lead him on any longer. "I'm sorry, I can't . . . I can't go on like this." They study each other for a moment, his eyes cold and harsh with hurt.

"I understand," he says, and turns away. "I'll be gone in the morning."


End file.
